Where the Silence Calls

by Where the Silence Calls (retail) (epub)

  His wife was looking at him. ‘I understand, Polly,’ he said, ‘and I will try my best. But you know me, I can’t help it. I lose myself in the investigation. The only thing that matters is the truth.’

  For a moment, the marriage counsellor and her ridiculous office vanished. It was just Ridpath and Polly in the room talking to each other.

  ‘I know, Ridpath, that’s why I love you. It’s just that—’

  ‘When you say “love”, Mrs Ridpath, what do you really mean?’

  That was it for Polly. There followed a five-minute tirade about marriage guidance counsellors, busybodies, blatant bias, Neanderthal attitudes to marriage, and religious hypocrisy.

  Ridpath loved every second of it.

  Finally Polly stood up. ‘Let’s go, Ridpath, I can’t stand another second in this place.’

  As they left, Ridpath heard the counsellor suggesting she book them in for another session at the same time next week.

  It never happened.

  But for some reason, the marriage guidance session worked. They went for a drink afterwards and for the first time in a long time they actually talked about life, his health, what Polly wanted, and about Eve. Not long after, Polly moved back to their home with their daughter and they were a happy family again.

  Dysfunctional but happy.

  Ridpath promised himself he would try to change, not become so emotionally involved in his cases, care for his wife and daughter better. A promise he had managed to keep… so far.

  A cough from opposite. Sophia being as polite as ever.

  ‘Excuse me, Ridpath, but don’t you have your weekly meeting at Police HQ? You looked miles away.’

  Ridpath stood up and began packing his things. ‘I was, Sophia, in a far, far better place.’

  ‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,’ Sophia quoted the words precisely.

  Ridpath raised an eyebrow. ‘You surprise me, Sophia.’

  ‘English Lit, GCSE, 2012. I got an A-star,’ she said proudly. ‘And how do you know the line from A Tale of Two Cities?’

  ‘Pub Quiz, the White Lion, last week. We came second.’

  Chapter Six

  Detective Superintendent Claire Trent, the head of the Major Incident Team of GMP, had a problem. Nothing in front of her added up.

  The numbers were correct, of course – she had rechecked them that morning – but still her costs far outweighed the budget she had been allocated. She would have to restrict overtime even more, but if a major investigation was initiated, it could really blow the budget out of the water.

  She scratched her head with a pencil and stared at the computer screen. But no matter how hard she looked at the figures, they refused to change.

  She was quite simply buggered, to put it in the latest accountant-speak.

  Most people thought the life of a detective involved chasing after criminals in souped-up squad cars or making dawn raids to pick up Britain’s most wanted man. A legacy of the years of The Sweeney, no doubt.

  Even the modern stuff, with its Northern Irish superintendents chasing police corruption without a thought for costs, resources, or the latest directives from the Home Office, made her laugh every time she watched it.

  Which planet were they on? Certainly not hers.

  By the time a copper reached her rank they spent more time on the bureaucracy of policing – stuck in endless budget meetings, HR initiatives, and policy schemes – than on any day-to-day police work.

  The latest bit of gobbledygook she had to get her head around was the allocation of resources based on data analysis by algorithms. Apparently, according to the Home Office, it was the future of policing: a cost/benefit analysis of every bloody investigation with the algorithm telling where they could allocate resources and time to justify the cost of the police force and align them with the latest governmental objectives.

  Pretty soon, even certain murders wouldn’t be investigated because they didn’t justify the resources attached to them. Perhaps the Home Office would be more comfortable dealing with machines instead of living, breathing coppers?

  She stared at the bottom line once again. The figures hadn’t changed. She was still over budget for the year and savings had to be made somewhere.

  ‘Give me a good, juicy murder any day,’ she murmured to herself.

  A slight tap on the door and Detective Chief Inspector Lorraine Caruso popped her head around. ‘The meeting’s ready for you, boss.’

  She had promoted Caruso to replace Charlie Whitworth after his severe injury during the Connolly case. She now ran the day-to-day investigations of MIT, and leading the department in Trent’s absence.

  The interruption made her think of Charlie. A copper from the old school if ever there was one. Charlie wouldn’t know an algorithm if it bit him on the arse. What had happened to him? Was his cost still on her books? She would have to check. Perhaps that’s where she could make her savings on the budget? Either get him to retire or transfer him off her books. She scribbled a quick note to herself to check.

  ‘Er… hello, boss… the meeting?’

  Trent smiled and refocused. ‘Thanks, Lorraine. How is everything?’

  The new detective chief inspector shrugged her shoulders. ‘All OK, the weekend was quiet. The thugs of Manchester must have gone on holiday for a while.’

  ‘An Easter break?’

  ‘Maybe. Off to Costa del Con or wherever they go.’

  Trent glanced down at the long rows of budget figures and costs. As she did so, a thought crossed her mind. She paused for a moment, licking her lips. ‘How’s Ridpath working out?’

  Without being asked Caruso pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘You mean him being attached to both the coroner’s office and here? To be honest, he’s one of the last of Charlie Whitworth’s willy-wavers and a bit of a maverick. He’s got a mouth on him and he’s not a team player.’

  Trent smiled. ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘It’s not personal. He’s a bit of a clothes hanger in my opinion.’

  ‘You mean wears the uniform but doesn’t do much?’

  Caruso smirked.

  ‘He has a good reputation. Did some great work on the Connolly case. Kept at it when everyone else had given up. You think he’s still one of Charlie’s boys?’

  ‘He’s not one of mine…’

  ‘You know he’s still on the payroll?’

  ‘I thought he was paid by the local authority, like all the other coroner’s officers.’

  The detective superintendent shook her head. ‘He’s a detective inspector on our books. Probationary still though, we haven’t promoted him.’

  ‘You mean I’m one person short because we’re paying for him?’

  Trent rose from behind her table and picked up her folder. ‘I think we’re late for the meeting,’ she answered noncommittally as she walked towards the door.

  Chapter Seven

  By the time Ridpath had negotiated the traffic through central Manchester, stopped at every red light on Oldham Road, found a parking place and finally cleared the security protocols of Police HQ, the weekly MIT meeting had already started.

  He entered the long room and saw the team arrayed opposite each other at two long desks, with Claire Trent sitting at the middle and Lorraine Caruso beside her.

  Lorraine was speaking as he walked in.

  ‘…the surveillance of the Moston gang hasn’t shown anything of significance, boss. They’re hanging out in the Trocadero Club most nights…’ She stopped speaking as he slid into the room, hoping nobody would notice him.

  Of course, all the team looked up from their folders and stared right at him.

  It was Claire Trent who spoke. ‘Good morning, Ridpath.’ She stared pointedly at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m so glad you could join us. Detective Chief Inspector Caruso is just going through our files and giving us an update on the progress in each one.’

&nb
sp; ‘Sorry, guv’nor, traffic,’ Ridpath mumbled.

  She glanced around the room. ‘Twenty other detectives seemed to have no problem this morning. Perhaps you need a new alarm clock, Ridpath…’ she paused a second for emphasis ‘…or a new job.’

  ‘Sorry, guv’nor,’ Ridpath muttered again as he took the nearest available seat, removing a heavy file from it and placing it on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Carry on, Lorraine.’

  ‘Item three. The burglaries of old people in South Manchester.’

  ‘Lorraine, people cannot be burgled, only property…’ Trent said tetchily.

  The detective chief inspector thought for a moment. ‘Right, boss, the burglaries of the homes of old people in South Manchester. This case has been wrapped up by DI Makepeace and DC Carton. The Crown Prosecution Service agreed the case against the two thugs, Harold Davidson and Philip Mahoney, had merit. They have been charged with aggravated burglary and assault.’

  ‘That’s a great result, Harry and Jill. I received an email from the head of the Northwest CPS complimenting us. She thought the work collecting the evidence and putting the case together was textbook.’ Trent began a round of applause that was soon taken up by the other officers.

  Ridpath didn’t know either of them. They were part of the new regime brought in by the guv’nor to replace Charlie’s men, who had been moved on to other departments. The new broom always sweeps clean, even in the police force.

  When the applause had died down, Caruso began again. ‘Item four. The county lines drug investigation in Cheshire. We’ve called in Operation Matador…’

  She was interrupted by Trent placing a hand on her arm. ‘Before you go any further, Lorraine, let’s hear from Ridpath on what’s been happening in the coroner’s office.’ She stared across the table at him.

  Ridpath looked around as once again all eyes turned on him. He coughed twice. ‘We haven’t had our work-in-progress yet. We normally do it after this meeting and I update the coroner.’

  ‘Well, this time, update us on your work.’ Trent smiled sweetly. A little too sweetly.

  Ridpath realised he had walked into a trap. He thought quickly, remembering the facts compiled by Sophia that morning. ‘Of course, guv’nor. Last week, there were 127 deaths in our area, outside of hospitals. Of these, the coroner has decided to open inquests on 42, with investigations underway in all of them.’

  ‘You’re investigating 42 deaths?’

  ‘Not all of them, guv’nor. Some of them involve just checking the paperwork of the police or deciding if a post-mortem should be carried out. Or making sure the doctor who signed the death certificate has done so correctly.’

  ‘What do you mean, “checking the paperwork of the police”?’

  Ridpath took a breath. She was quizzing him. Where did this come from? ‘For example, if a person dies at home, the police will be called in to check that there are no suspicious circumstances involved. Their report of the incident will be seen by the coroner and myself.’

  ‘Has the coroner overturned a police report?’ This time it was Caruso asking the question. Were they tag-teaming him?

  ‘It happens. Recently a detective sergeant in Liverpool investigated the death of a woman. He decided the death was accidental, due to a heart attack and excessive consumption of alcohol. The Liverpool coroner, however, noticed the presence of bruising on her body. He asked the police to re-look at the case and requested a post-mortem. A Lithuanian man has since been charged with murder.’

  ‘Have you ever asked for the police to re-look at a case?’

  This time it was a question from Trent. They were tag-teaming him. This felt like an interrogation of a wanted criminal rather than a work-in-progress meeting. ‘Not recently, no.’

  Trent coughed once and scratched her nose. ‘Let’s continue, shall we, Lorraine?’

  The meeting continued for another forty minutes without interruption. At the end, Trent wrapped up with a simple speech. ‘Take care out there. We’re busy people, with lots to do. But let’s make sure we manage costs and overtime. I have budget meetings in the next couple of weeks and I want no surprises, OK?’

  ‘Yes, guv’nor,’ the assembled detectives chorused.

  As she left the room, one of the few remaining detectives from Charlie Whitworth’s era, Harry Makepeace, sidled up to him. ‘What was all that about, Ridpath?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Harry. Perhaps she got out of her coffin on the wrong side this morning.’

  ‘You heard her on about budgets again. That’s all they ever talk about these days. They all know the cost of everything and value of nothing. We’re the cheapest police force money can buy.’

  ‘What’s that, Harry? You were saying something?’

  Lorraine Caruso had approached without either of them noticing.

  Harry went bright red. ‘Nothing, boss, just talking.’

  ‘As for you, Ridpath, don’t you have work to do? We all have to justify our existence these days, didn’t you hear the guv’nor?’

  ‘And how are you justifying your existence, Lorraine? Getting rid of more of coppers?’ Ridpath couldn’t resist winding up his supposed boss.

  She just smiled and shook her head. ‘You shouldn’t have said that, Ridpath. You really shouldn’t have said that.’ She poked him in the chest. ‘Remember, you work for me.’ Then she turned and walked away.

  Ridpath wished she had used the word ‘with’ instead of ‘for’. He was just about to follow her and find out what was going on when his phone rang. It was the coroner, Mrs Challinor.

  ‘Hello, Ridpath, has your meeting ending yet?’

  ‘Just a second ago. Not the happiest of times.’

  ‘Oh, why was that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Challinor, but something is going on here.’

  ‘Right,’ she said without enquiring any further. ‘I have a case that’s more important at the moment. There was a fire at Roedean House in Wythenshawe last night. A body of a man was found in the living room. The fire investigator will be there at noon. Can you attend too?’

  ‘You’re opening an inquest on this death, Mrs Challinor?’

  ‘I want to see your report first, Ridpath.’

  ‘Right, I’m on my way.’

  ‘Good. And Ridpath, be careful. I don’t have a good feeling about this one.’

  Chapter Eight

  Ridpath shook hands with Detective Constable Ron Pleasance and the incident commander, Dave Greene, outside Roedean House. Each of them gave him a card, but of course he had left his on his desk at the coroner’s office. One day he would get it right.

  ‘Thomas Ridpath, coroner’s officer for Eastern Manchester.’

  ‘The fire investigator is on his way,’ said Pleasance as he shook Ridpath’s hand.

  ‘Who are they sending?’ asked Greene.

  Pleasance checked his notes. ‘Somebody called Terry Dolan.’

  ‘Never heard of him, hope he knows his stuff.’ Greene checked the sky. ‘Better get here soon, it’s gonna bucket down.’

  The brilliant sunshine of the Easter weekend had given way to more typical Manchester weather: raining or threatening rain, with clouds the dirty grey of well-worn underwear.

  Ridpath stared up at the three-storey block of flats. It was the classic council housing design from the 1950s. Well-built but lacking in imagination. He wondered why they had called it after the famous girls’ school, he could see no resemblance at all.

  Behind him, in the courtyard, four boys were playing football using a pair of jackets as goalposts, their shouts echoing off the walls of the surrounding blocks. You didn’t see these games very often nowadays, but back when he was growing up it was the only thing kids did.

  Pleasance stepped forward. ‘Hey, you kids, can’t you see the sign?’ He pointed to a large council notice. NO BALL GAMES.

  One of the kids gave him the finger as they picked up their jackets and the ball and ran off, shouting, ‘Up yours, copper!�
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  Ridpath stared at the detective constable. He was sure he had never met him before. The man was young, couldn’t have been older than twenty-seven. Obviously just passed his exams and on his first placement in CID. They must have been short-staffed if he was assigned to this case. ‘You should have left them alone, they weren’t doing any harm.’

  Pleasance shrugged his shoulders. ‘Breaking the law.’

  ‘It’s a council by-law, not a legal statute. They weren’t hurting anyone…’

  Before he finished his sentence, a white Vauxhall Vectra accelerated into the parking area and stopped in front of the flats.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ said Greene.

  A middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap over his shaven head rushed out of the car and over towards them. ‘Sorry I’m late. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Terry Dolan from Adelphi Consultants.’

  ‘Hi Terry, shall we go in?’ said Pleasance.

  The others moved towards the white tent erected by the Scene of Crime team just outside the entrance, but Dolan stood where he was, staring up at the outside of the flats.

  Ridpath followed his eyes and glanced up at the top floor. The windows on the right-hand side were broken and scorch marks smeared the red brick and off-white concrete.

  Dolan caught Ridpath looking at him. ‘You can tell a lot from looking at the outside of a fire.’

  ‘What does this one tell you?’

  Dolan pointed upwards. ‘See, all the scorching of the concrete is on just one side, where the living room is. There’s none outside the bedroom windows.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I can tell straight away the fire probably started in the living room. I’ll have to check when we go up, but I’m already pretty certain that’s where it began.’

  Dolan then moved away towards the tent, accompanied by Ridpath.

  Pleasance met them as they approached the white Scene of Crime tent. ‘Ridpath… I heard them talking in the station about you. Aren’t you with the Major Incident Team?’ he asked.